Flight
by M. Rig
Summary: Booth commits an unforgivable sin, and when Brennan runs from him, he goes to the ends of the earth to find her...angst, romance, smut, fluff.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: There are some swear words in this, and adult themes. Also, future chapters might move towards an M rating… undecided. So please beware if you're easily offended. I don't own any of these characters, though I'll be asking for them on my Christmas list. Thank you for reading!!!**

He always knew somewhere in the back of his head that he would fuck this up. As good as he was with women in some ways, and he was _very good,_ thank you _very much,_ he just didn't seem to be able to handle relationships. Becca, Tess, a whole long-legged parade of gorgeous and perfectly acceptable women that he just couldn't seal the deal with. And somehow he still thought of himself as a white picket fence guy, a guy who was just waiting to fall in love, a romantic. He might think of himself that way, but the cold reality of it was that his longest, and by far best, relationship was with a woman he'd never slept with. Bones. Or at least it used to be.

This whole horrible day felt like some goddamn Greek tragedy. Like Icarus flying too close to the sun. The telling detail here, of course, was just how good that sun had felt, as he got closer and closer to its warmth. Until his wings melted and all the rest of it, and yes—plummeting back to earth was exactly how it had felt. Bones had invited him over to her place. She was going to _cook for him._ And yeah, maybe he was old-fashioned and reading way too much into the situation but it felt like a step, like things were slowly changing. There was no big occasion, no reason for her to break out the mac 'n cheese recipe. She said she just wanted to do something nice for him, and she said it with that smile he almost never got to see: sweet, innocent. That smile made his heart fall into his knees with exquisite agony, that smile that nearly laid him flat.

He didn't like to dwell on that feeling. On why exactly a smile from his brilliant, thorny partner could turn his insides to jello. Like any good Catholic, he had long ago learned the value of denying certain thoughts and urges. If you put an idea into a box, duct-taped it shut—and we're talking _acres _of duct tape to keep this one in—and shoved it to the back of your mind never to open again, it didn't count as a sin. Didn't count as anything really. No black mark on your soul. So he never thought about Bones in _that way._ Well, except for the errant erotic dream, in which his subconscious willfully went rooting through the boxes in the deep storage part of his mind and pulled Bones out to feed his predilections and hungers. Those were the dreams that made him pop like a champagne cork in his sleep—something that hadn't happened since he was in grade school—as if his subconscious wanted to leave behind enough tangible evidence to make him face the reality of his feelings. To make him ask himself, even groggy with sleep, _gee why is that I'm swabbing off the front of my boxers like some horny kid, with the imaginary taste of my partner's wetness still in my mouth?_ But Seeley Booth could show his subconscious a thing or two. Each time, he stubbornly packed that box back up and shoved it further away. He went to church and said countless hail marys and asked forgiveness for disrespecting his partner. And then when he saw her, he was irritable and quick-tempered, because he worried that any kindness from her would send his head crashing into her chest just to inhale the scent of her skin like it was medicine and beg her to please _please_ just let him...

Wash, rinse, repeat. This was his own personal torture schedule. A good deal less bloody than what he'd endured as a soldier, but somehow even more effective at making him want to shrivel up and die. Because even as he used one hand to keep her at arm's length, he used the other to guide her. And not necessarily the way a friend, or brother, would. He guided her through the gray areas of life that she wanted to ignore, he continually pushed and nudged her to get comfortable with her own emotions and other people's as well. A random memory always popped to the fore: of when he and Parker had walked through a house-sized anatomical model of the human heart at a science center once. Yes, that was what he felt like. Bones' own personal escort through the murky interior of the human heart. And why exactly had he cast himself in that role, and perfected it year after year? Because he was a masochist, yes. But beyond that? Best not to think about it.

And everything had been wonderful. The food, their conversation, it was easy and natural and more fun than he'd had in a long time. She'd worn a thin type of sweater that was the single softest thing he'd ever felt under his fingers. She had flowers on the table, she opened a bottle of wine. There was music—sure, her weird world music, but still music—playing quietly from the living room. Her hair was pulled back in a different ponytail than the one she wore at a crime scene—higher, more playful, and her hair had swung and bounced as she moved through the kitchen and he had wanted to reach out and wind it around his hand and give it a gentle tug. And he'd thought—maybe this was delusion—that he had seen just a glimmer of something in her eyes. Something more intimate. After dinner, they were sitting on the couch killing the dregs of the wine and laughing about her taste in interior decor. He was teasing her just to see that flash of pique, and the color of her blush, because she was so beautiful when she was flustered. Every cell in his body was aligned towards her, sure as compass needles pointing north. His shoulder touched her shoulder. His knee touched her knee. It began to feel like a date. They were happy, everything was perfect. Until he fucked up and pushed her too far.

She had thrown her head back to laugh at one of his jokes—that good-gritty laugh that felt like a caress inside his ears—and the vulnerable length of her neck was exposed to him, right in front of his mouth. And like some sort of bizarre vampire, he couldn't stop himself, and leaned in and kissed her. Just tilted his head and pressed his lips to the delicate skin of her neck as if he had any right. Inhaled the scent of her. Memorized the little gasp of surprise that she made. Just hurdled over their line and embarrassed himself, just like that. And all for one kiss—and _barely_ a kiss, more like some hesitant type of nuzzling—on her neck. He regretted the choice. If he had known that this one clumsy move would incinerate their whole partnership, he damn well wouldn't have pecked her on the neck. He would've dragged her down onto the floor underneath him, pinned her with his body, ripped her clothes off, and done his very best to see if he could melt his entire life force into hers, like cellular osmosis, through the sexual act. But he hadn't planned it out, hadn't expected this particular box to unpack itself from the untidy corners of his mind. And so he had thrown away the best relationship of his life for a kiss on the neck.

Because her face had frozen. Like she was in shock. All the easy laughter of their evening was somehow vacuum-sucked from the room, as if it had never been there. In its place, there was silence. Awkward, uneasy, fearful silence, and the longer it stretched the more he felt his pulse accelerating like he was having a heart attack. All he could think was _what have I done what have I done what have I done_, and her face had become a porcelain mask. Years of storming her defenses, planning his strategy, biding his time with the patience of a _sniper_ for God's sake, without even consciously realizing that that's what he was doing, and he had thrown it all away with one stupid move, because he felt for a moment that they were on a date, and he had been happier than he ever remembered and it seemed so natural to lean over and kiss her, it seemed so right. Until he actually did it.

She had gotten up from the couch slowly, as if she was trying not to draw attention to herself, and walked to the windows. She turned her back to him, arms crossed protectively over her chest, and stared out the window in silence. He got the message loud and clear. He couldn't even bring himself to say goodnight, couldn't thank her for the wonderful dinner, couldn't express his gratitude for what had briefly been one of his happiest evenings. He just gathered his coat and keys and boulder-sized burden of shame and left. And found himself in his car, staring at the dashboard like he had never seen it before, momentarily forgetting how exactly to turn a key in the ignition, how exactly to fasten his seatbelt, how to drive away. Why had he done something so incredibly mindless? _Why? _That kiss sent him reeling into the hard reality of all the boxes he'd packed away. He had to face the truth of it. Because even though he hated to admit to it, he was playing the long game. Had been since day one. Coaxing her to the point that she'd be ready to handle his feelings… assuming, obviously, that he was able to handle them first. Thinking naively, that through patience and trust he could somehow perform alchemy and turn Bones into his little picket fence wife. He didn't think of it as changing her per se, just… transmuting her. And he was so fucking stupid to ever think that she could change. To even want her to. She was unique and amazing and special the way she was—why was his subconscious so desperate to make her like every other woman? That was simple. So he could selfishly claim her, because at the end of the day, he was just like every other man. He was normal and he wanted normal things. She was extraordinary, and unless she somehow descended to his own mortal level, he could never deserve her. Selfish, selfish, shit.

This was why he hadn't been with another woman in over a year. A _year. _Even by his own standards, it had taken some pretty fancy footwork to denial-dance around that little fact. To never ask himself why exactly he'd stopped dating, why he'd stopped looking at other women, why a man with his usually potent sexual appetite had been content to live like a monk. So. Unbelievably. Stupid. But this at least was something he could fix. He could screw his way to oblivion, and maybe if he was lucky, drown out the truth of the one he really wanted by using another woman's body. Sort of the fake-it-til-you-make-it theory. Maybe if he could just get back on the horse, so to speak, he could have a shot at eventually finding another woman that he cared about even just a fraction as much as he cared about Bones. And then maybe he could stop torturing himself with dreams that could never become reality, and move on. And by moving on, he wouldn't have to bother her anymore with his pathetic hopes. It was the best thing for both of them really, that he go find some casual anonymous sex, and fast. Spurred by desperation, he finally remembered how to put the car in gear and navigate it to the nearest bar.

This part had never been difficult for him, not like relationships were. He could turn on the charm and had more than enough confidence to know that he wouldn't be going home alone tonight. And yeah, it wasn't a noble thing to do, using another person like this. And yeah, it was fairly disgusting, and he would be ashamed later. But the shame he would feel at having a one-night stand with a stranger was nowhere near the shame he felt at making a move on his partner. So he had looked over the women at the bar as dispassionately as if he was selecting produce at the supermarket, and found one with a nice body. Decent legs, decent face, decent hair. Adequate hotness for him to manage the physical mechanics of the act. Legal age, not drunk, check check. She may have been a nice person, may not have deserved this, but whatever. Her name was Amy, or Jenny, or something else that ended in an 'ee' sound—he couldn't remember, he didn't care. Had taken her back to his apartment, a tangle of limbs and strange perfume and had put his tongue down her throat every time she tried to talk, but she certainly wasn't complaining anyway. And it was uncomfortable, and felt wrong, and he pretended she was Bones and he forced himself to stay silent so that he wouldn't call out his partner's name, and he grabbed this stranger's breasts like he was forcing a pill down. And he thought about the box of condoms in his nightstand and realized how clinical it would have to be—it was risky enough already, and he wasn't dumb enough to risk an STD on this pathetic encounter and so he planned how to touch her as little as possible and still complete the deed. It would, by far, be the worst sex of his life, and maybe that was part of his punishment for letting the situation get so far out of hand. And he hadn't even taken his clothes off, though she had removed all of hers, because he didn't want to feel this any more than he had to. An unzipped fly was all he needed.

And just as he was ripping the foil packages open, as if two condoms—that's right, two, because he wasn't taking even a point-one percent chance of disaster—could protect his heart from the beating it had endured already tonight, and whatshername was sprawled across his bed looking as out of place as he felt, he heard a knock on his door. Fuckit. He knew that he could barely go through with this as it was, and he didn't need any distractions, not when all his mental energy was focused on just trying to stay hard and get this over with. More knocking—whoever it was would have to just go the fuck away. He was about to complete step 1 of the 'get over Bones and move on with his life so that maybe just maybe there was a chance he could save his partnership' plan and he was resolved. Swallowing a gulp of dishonor, he reached down to the woman on his bed and turned her over, dropping an apologetic caress to her shoulder to soften the obvious fact that he didn't want to see her face while he did this, and pulled her hips up and kneeled behind her. And then saw a shadow fall over the door to his bedroom and heard his partner's voice—

"Booth, I…"

And looked up and saw her standing there, keys in hand, utterly blank with shock, her face…_her face_ just staring at him, and he froze and she turned and ran and he called after her to wait, and she shouted "I'm so sorry, I didn't know—" and he zipped up and threw himself after her and cried "Please, wait, Bones, don't go—" and she slammed the door after her and was gone. And he felt like he'd been caught cheating, like he had betrayed her, and just kept seeing the hurt on her face, his best friend, and _oh God…_ and he didn't know whether he was going to vomit or cry or rip the fibers out of the carpet that he had collapsed onto, clenching them in his fists with white knuckles and wishing that he could punch himself in the face for what he'd done. He had to go after her, explain himself, try to make her understand. He wasn't anywhere near ready to be honest with himself or her about the feelings he'd stored away for the last few years, but now he would have to. Because there was no discomfort, no humiliation, he wouldn't endure to try and ease the pain he'd seen in her face. He didn't know what sort of feelings she had for him, but he knew that she'd never expected to find him like this. Never expected him to keep secrets like this. Never expected that after cooking for him and giving him such a lovely evening, and then being _kind_ enough to seek him out after he'd risked their partnership with one stupid kiss, to drive over here and then find him in mid-fuck with some worthless stranger—that she had _tried_ to come talk to him about it… he groaned and buried his face in his hands. He hadn't thought it was possible for him to mess up their relationship more than he already had. But _this_ made that little kiss look like a minor transgression in comparison. How could they ever come back from _this?_

And then that woman came out of the bedroom—she had already put her clothes back on. She left a phone number in his hand and looked at him with sympathy and told him to call her if things didn't work out with his girlfriend and had left. He needed to go after Bones, needed to move. But he couldn't bring himself to be near her with another woman's smell all over him. He felt dirty in a profound way that a million showers couldn't wash clean, but he tried. He brushed his teeth ruthlessly and scrubbed himself under nearly boiling water and cried against the shower tile like a baby and was so shamefully overcome with self-pity that he nearly retched again. Sweets would say that this was all the result of not dealing with personal baggage—that emotional issues left to fester would eventually infect everyone they came in contact with. He couldn't remember ever being this much of a screwup—not even when he gambled, not even the halfassed way he'd treated Becca. He had messed up a lot of relationships but had _never_ done it so profoundly…which made a terrible sort of sense really. Biggest relationship of his life, biggest screwup. The water swirling down the shower drain seemed to take all his hope with it. He could never fix this, but maybe if he just bared his heart to her honestly, without pride, he could make her understand what she'd walked in on. That he hadn't just kissed her and then gone onto the next woman as if it was nothing. That what she'd seen him about to do with a stranger had _everything_ to do with her, and in his twisted logic had made sense at the time, and that he never meant to be so cruel.

He hesitated when he got to her apartment. Couldn't bring his fist to knock on the door. Felt like he didn't even deserve to be standing at her threshold, had no business asking to enter her home. Dragging his arm to that door was more difficult than almost anything he'd ever done. And when his knock was met with silence, he tried again. Nothing. He called her name and knocked louder. But something in the silence on the other side of the door felt more still than a person just refusing to answer. It felt like the apartment was empty. He hadn't thought to check for her car—just assumed at this late hour that she would be here. When one last attempt was met with silence, he used his key to let himself in. All the lights were off, and the only sound he heard was the buzz of the refrigerator in the distance. She wasn't here. Moving through the apartment, he called her name again just in case, but got no response. Everything looked normal until he got to the bedroom, to find a sight that stilled the blood in his veins. The closet doors were thrown open, the bedding was ruffled in the middle, the drawers were all hanging out, askew and strewn with clothing. There was no cell phone charger on the nightstand. The chaos of this room, in contrast to her usual fastidiousness, spoke of someone packing in a hurry, throwing things into a suitcase. He snapped on the light and rushed to the closet—there was no luggage there. No. _No._ She was running. He had made her run from him. He didn't know where she was or how to find her and he struggled against the panic that it might already be too late.

Good thing he was an agent, at least. He could check airline records for her name. If she was flying, he could find her. If she was just driving, well, he couldn't put an APB out for his partner just because he needed to have a talk with her. He would have to call Angela, and then she would need to know the whole sordid story. Hoping to avoid that at all cost, he sprinted back to his car, and tore off to the Hoover, thankful that no one was likely to be in the office at this time of night to see him in such a panic. The time it took to power up his computer seemed endless. He fought the urge to throw something, anything, just to hear it shatter. When he was finally able to check the passenger logs, he felt a surge of relief when he saw her name. American Airlines, flight 3548 to Caracas. For some reason, Bones had decided to flee to Venezuela. Whatever she needed. But he was going to be on the next plane right behind her, and he was going to do his damnedest to make this right. But then something caught his eye, farther down in the list of timestamped passenger data. There was _another_ entrance for Temperance Brennan—this time, on a flight bound for Charles de Gaulle in Paris. And another one, going to Hong Kong via San Francisco. And another, and another, and another. He stared in disbelief. All total, there were eight Temperance Brennans flying to five different continents, all flights leaving within the hour or already departed. _Sonofabitch_. She was so smart, and she knew him so well. She had spent a small fortune on last-minute tickets for eight different flights just so that he wouldn't be able to find her. His Bones was somewhere right now, flying off into the night to God only knows where, fleeing from him and trying to cover her tracks. The pain hit his gut like a brass-knuckled fist. She had never tried to elude him before. She had never really run from him, shut him out. After all his progress, all the walls he had slowly dismantled, he had managed to, in one awful night, completely annihilate her trust. She was somewhere out there, with that splintered expression in her eyes, looking so broken. He had _broken_ them.

**Okay, so this chap was obviously Booth's POV. I'd like to do the next chap as Brennan's POV, but I haven't decided quite how yet… I know it was angsty, but I promise a happy and possibly M-rated ending if you stick with me. : ) As always, I live to hear from you. **


	2. Chapter 2

**I was supposed to work this afternoon. I did not. ; )**

Brennan only relaxed when the cabin door was sealed and the pre-flight announcements squawked out over the intercom. It had been years since she'd flown coach, and she was surprisingly bothered at the proximity of her fellow travelers, but there had been no first-class tickets available. Were people normally okay with this? Being packed in like piano keys, with barely any room to put their laptops? Sighing, she leaned as far back as she could, which was only slightly more than vertical, and closed her eyes.

She didn't want to think about what she had seen, didn't want to examine the situation. She just wanted to… get away. Like Booth had told her once, and at the time she had asked 'Get away from what?' but suddenly she understood all too clearly. Just away. Put a few thousand miles between her and what she'd seen this evening. The woman at the ticket counter had thought she was crazy for purchasing multiple tickets, but didn't complain overly as soon as her credit card was accepted. And she had never been one to worry about what strangers thought of her anyway. Pulling out her phone, she dashed off a quick text to Cam before a flight attendant could catch her. _Taking emergency leave of absence—personal—will advise re: my return date when determined—TB. _She winced to think of Angela getting the news from Cam, but just couldn't bring herself to contact her friend quite yet. Angela was too perceptive, even over a few lines of phoned text, and would demand more information than Brennan was ready to give.

As usual, attempting _not_ to think of something just caused her to think about it more. The sight of Booth and… whoever she was… Brennan hadn't even known he was dating anyone. She had foolishly believed that they didn't keep secrets like that from each other anymore. Not that she had any right to be informed of his personal choices. She just wished she'd known, to save herself the embarrassment of charging into his bedroom unannounced like some sort of banshee. She cringed again when she thought of how it must have looked. She was certain that her face had showed all the shock and dismay and hurt she'd felt, and Booth was too good a judge of emotions to have missed it. Now he would rightfully be wondering what the hell she was thinking to be so obviously upset when really _he _was the one who should be upset. He had every right to a personal life that his work partner shouldn't meddle in. He had every right. And yet…

She hadn't imagined that kiss. He'd kissed her throat, so gently, and to think of it now she _almost_ imagined that it had never happened. Except for the awkwardness that followed, which had been excruciatingly, sensitively real. Why had he done that? Was it possible that a kiss on the neck was an acceptable form of friendly affection? She didn't think so, but she'd been wrong about these types of social mores many times before. Could it be considered a casual gesture, like a guy hug or a squeeze of a hand? She was so confused, and she wished she could ask Angela but shuddered at the thought. The truth was, they'd had a wonderful evening up until that point. As usual, Booth had eaten with gusto, and his obvious enthusiasm for her food was an even more pleasing compliment than his lavish words of praise had been. She liked having him in her home, even liked the way her furniture seemed a bit too small for him, the way her space seemed too fussy and tidy next to his boisterous charm. Everything had been going so well, and random thoughts had started flitting into her mind. That this is what it would be like if they were… together. As more than partners. It could be a random Tuesday night. She had let herself briefly get carried away with the idea, of monopolizing his time, of being more in his life than just… Bones. And then he had leaned over and kissed her, said nothing, just kissed the side of her throat so delicately that she'd felt the warmth of his breath almost more than the pressure of his lips.

It had stolen her breath away. She'd had to curl her fingers into fists to keep from grabbing the back of his head and pulling him more firmly against her. He had been so close—just a few inches up and he would be kissing her lips. Just a few inches down and his lips would be at her breast. She shivered involuntarily at the thought. She shouldn't be thinking of her partner like this. Even if his kiss had been more than a friendly gesture, it still was light years more innocent than some of the things she fantasized about doing. She had sat next to him as long as she was physically able to keep her hands to herself, and then had gotten up, attempting to find a measure of self control as she stared out at the lights of the city. _Just act casual,_ she lectured herself. _Don't let him see how pathetically needy you are—how much one innocent gesture has driven you almost crazy to touch him._ But as she thought of ways to get the evening back on course, she heard the quiet click of her front door, and turned to find an empty apartment. The space itself seemed to mourn his loss, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so lonely. Why had he left without saying goodbye? She must have offended him in some way. It must have been the way she left the couch and walked away. But didn't he know by now that she wasn't like him? That she wasn't able to process her emotions as quickly as he could, that she needed space to sort through her feelings?

But even with him gone, she didn't have enough space. The coffee table still held his wine glass—a vessel that, she knew, if held to the light would still show the ghostly topography of his fingerprints. His smell still lingered faintly in the air: soapy, and the light smell of the cologne she knew he wore because he worried that the stench of dead bodies would somehow imbue itself into the fibers of his clothing. Their dishes still rested in a stack next to her sink, where she'd put them for later as she refused his offer to help clean up. This was _her _apartment. So why did it feel as if suddenly she wasn't enough to fill the space? When did she start feeling lonely without him? Maybe part of the problem was how quickly she'd gotten accustomed to his friendship. She'd become almost possessive of his time, his smiles, the small moments of intimacy that she didn't want anyone else to share a piece of. It was that possessive streak that she was afraid he'd seen when she invaded his bedroom. It was unhealthy, dysfunctional. Sweets would have a field date with her—was that the expression?

She resolved to be a better friend to him, as soon as she got back. No more imagining a life focused around him. No more staring at his lips when he talked. No more relying on him for every single emotional need. And _definitely _no more wayward fantasies of his body, his skin, the muscles across his shoulders, whether he would be gentle or forceful with her, of dropping to her knees in front of him, of nibbling on that little spot at the base of his earlobe. No more. She just needed some time, some space, to find her self control again. To get him out of her mind so that when she returned they could go back to being partners. Colleagues. She would make sure he understood that there was no need to keep his relationships secret. Not that she could handle a cozy happy hour with the possible future Mrs. Booth or anything like that, but she could be supportive. She would never invade his privacy again, never march into his bedroom in such an embarrassing way. He was a good man and he deserved to be happy. And the next time that she got a genius idea that she could possibly be the cause of his happiness, she would simply compartmentalize better. Wrap that thought in a box, tie a ribbon on it, tuck it away. The image of her last Christmas gifts from her parents floated into her mind. She thought of how many years she kept those gifts stored in the back of her closet. She was very, very good at keeping boxes stored away.

She held her boarding passes in her hand like they could ward off her pain. The first flight, to Heathrow, would be a relatively painless 8 hours. Hopefully she'd be able to sleep through the majority of it. And from there, an even breezier 6 hour journey would find her in Cairo. Al Qahira to the locals, she reminded herself. She had resisted Dr. Hawass's overtures to visit the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities for too long. Hopefully he would forgive the impulsive nature of her arrival. She'd been to Cairo once before, and the layers of life sandwiched together in the city had jostled her senses awake. To see a McDonalds sign rising directly next to an archaeological dig that dated to the time of Seti I was an unforgettable sight. To see the way the cheap motels and tourist stalls huddled at the base of the Great Pyramid of Giza like toddlers around a mother's skirt. To taste the dates in Memphis, which grew on trees that descended directly from the gardens of the pharaohs. It had been years since she'd first stood in the desert at dawn and watched the sun rise over the ancient beehive curves of the Red Pyramid. At the time, she'd never seen anything so beautiful. Maybe if she returned to that site, she could recapture the wonder she'd experienced before, when the single most important thing in her life was her work. No messy personal relationships. No disappointments. Just work.

**Please don't hate me for the first chapter! I promise that Booth is going to be much better behaved from now on. He's just confused, and he needs your sympathy. He might even need a hug. Okay, and maybe just a little pinch on the ass. ; ) **

**I'm totally not sure where to take this next, so if you have requests please drop a line! Smutty or fluffy? Angsty or happy? Paper or plastic?**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: A thousand sincere apologies for messing up the posting of this story's second chapter. I accidentally added it as a new story, rather than a chapter. So I'm very very sorry to those of you kind enough to put Flightchapter 2 on your story alert and favorite stories lists. I am apparently challenged by the publishing tool. Thank you to everyone who reviewed Flightchapter 2, and I'm sorry that I'm going to have to delete that and repost it correctly as a chapter to the original Flight—but I'm saving all the amazing, wonderful reviews you all took the time to write! Thanks especially to DoctorSweets and BxBForever for helping me figure out this mess, and the appropriate ratings. This chapter is T-rated, but in the future I'll err on the side of caution and post chapters that get close to that gray area as an M. I hope I didn't offend anyone with that first chapter!**

**Also, since I couldn't PM you—thank you DBLover for your incredibly thoughtful and sweet review!!! Made my day.**

As soon as Booth walked into the Medico-Legal Lab, Cam was at his heels.

"Do you know what's going on with Dr. Brennan?" she asked. "I got this text message. Not exactly overflowing with information."

Booth scanned the brief text. Worse than he thought. The fact that she planned to stay away long enough to not even give Cam a return date made him nauseous. Running from him—after what she'd seen, he could understand that. But running from her job? He could barely believe it. He had been awake almost all weekend, hating himself, berating himself, driving himself into a frenzy of anxiety and guilt. He'd been to church, he'd been to the gym. Praying it out, sweating it out, nothing had worked. He'd never felt so messed up in his entire life.

He replied with a terse "no" and shouldered rudely past Cam. He was sorry. He was sorry to everyone, for everything, because all he could ever seem to do was hurt the people he cared about the most. There would probably come a day, maybe soon, when he would let Parker down too. Everyone should just expect it and understand that he was no safe keeper of hearts. Not a man to trust.

It was sort of tragic, really. How long he'd been able to pretend that he wasn't in love with his partner—totally, irretrievably crazy-gone in love with her—when she was right here next to him, in arm's reach. Only now, when she was missing (that was the only way he could think of it, that she was _missing_), did he realize how much he needed to see her, needed to be near her, to know that she was safe. He looked back at their years together objectively. Looked at the man that was Seeley Booth, watched him interacting with his beautiful partner. Saw him meet her for the first time, watched as his entire body puffed up with challenge, because he was so intent to bend this impressive woman to his authority. Even that early, his response to her blotted everything else out. It should have been a warning sign but he hadn't seen it. She had just gotten under his skin like no one else ever had. And then later, watching himself painfully trying to explain to her that their friendship was a guy friendship, that he didn't really see her as a woman. So cowardly. Though it was true that he didn't see her as _a_ woman—he saw her as _his_ woman. Then that kiss under the mistletoe, chaste as it was, had still made him feel like he was high. And the embarrassing way he lurked at the dock as Sully sailed out of her life, as if to wave a neon-bright banner that said 'He's gone! Turn around! I'm here instead!' It was so obvious, so pathetically apparent how much he loved her. Now he could see why Angela hinted so often, and got so frustrated with them. Because it was clear as day that he oriented his whole life towards her, like a sailor to a star. If only he hadn't kissed her, tried to greedily reach for more than he deserved, she would still be here next to him. He could be content forever with his usual little allowances: guy hugs, capturing imaginary fuzzies from her hair, leaning in a little too close when they were both smiling. He promised God that if Bones just came back safe to him, he would never again jeopardize their relationship by being greedy. He could go back to the torture—hell, he would cherish it.

He dragged a hand through his frustrated hair and walked into Angela's office. He had a list of the cities that Bones had purchased tickets to. He'd been staring at the list all weekend trying to think of a way to narrow it down but had come up with very little. To say that he wasn't thinking clearly was an understatement. He had finally been able to examine the problem rationally—maybe a certain rational empiricist's voice had floated through his mind—and realized that the timestamp of the last purchased ticket would have made it highly unlikely, if not impossible, that she'd have time to catch the four flights that were scheduled to leave the earliest. But that still left four other flights that she could have taken. He didn't know how to narrow it down further. He needed Angela's help. And he explained as much, though she wasn't looking exactly cooperative.

"Why?" she asked, crossing her arms and gazing at him sadly. "Why would I help you find her? If what you're telling me is true—not that you've really given me all the details you should have—then she's really angry with you for some reason and felt the need to escape. And you know I love you, but she's my friend first. Why on earth would I help you find her if she doesn't want to be found?"

He'd expected this. So he pulled out the big gun: honesty. "Because I'm in love with her." He almost sniffled, and sounded so pathetic it made him cringe.

Angela only sighed and rubbed her eyes wearily. "This isn't how I wanted to hear you finally admit that."

"I know."

She tilted her head speculatively. "If I was to help you, and you did find her, what would you do?"

"I would apologize. Not that it would matter… what I did, Ange, it was… unforgivable. And I know that. Things between us, well I think they're ruined. Forever. But I need her to know that it's not her fault. None of it is her fault. And I need her to know that… that she is, _was_, the best thing I've ever had, and losing her? Biggest regret of my life."

"What the hell did you do, Booth?" she asked incredulously.

He shook his head, unable to lift his gaze from the floor. His jaw was clenched in misery.

Angela couldn't bear to see anyone in so much pain. It just wasn't in her nature. "Let me see your list of cities. I'm not saying I'm definitely going to help you—I just want to see them."

He nodded gratefully and handed his list over. He had narrowed her destinations to Tokyo, Melbourne, Moscow, and Cairo. "And this is assuming that she didn't just buy the tickets, turn around, and drive away from the airport," he continued quietly. "She could still be in DC for all I know." He narrowed his eyes at Angela as a thought suddenly occurred to him. "She _could _be staying with you this whole time."

"Uhuh. Don't even. Don't ask for my help and then accuse me of being shady, Booth. I told you you're my friend too and I meant it."

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"You _are_ sorry," she agreed. "I've never seen you like this. So low." Her eyes melted with sadness as she looked him over. "Okay, listen. If you promise me, _promise_ me, that you'll do everything you can to fix whatever this problem is between you guys, I'll tell you where she is."

"You know where she is?!" he nearly shouted.

"I do. But I'm still worried because she clearly doesn't want to be found."

"Angela. _Please._"

With a dramatic sigh, she relented. "She's in Cairo. I would bet my house on it. It's the only city in that list that has any special meaning to her. She worked on an excavation there a couple years ago, at the Red Pyramid, had some sort of trippy experience in the desert—you know how she is, which is funny right? To simultaneously be such a slave to the scientific method but also embrace the completely irrational beliefs of other cultures? Actually—"

"Angela!" he interrupted. "_Where_ in Cairo? Will she be at this… red pyramid?"

Giving him a crass look, she continued. "Well, the dig at the Red Pyramid is long since over, so I'd guess that she'd check in with the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities. It's one of the most famous museums in the world, you can't miss it. I saw pictures of this one really cool room where they have all the little animal mummies that the… Booth?"

Without a response, the agent had turned on his heel and dashed out of her office.

"You're welcome!" she shouted after him crankily.

**AN: I know this chap was a short one. I'm working on the next one now… it's going to be M-rated. Warned! : ) **


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: This chapter brings the filth, so watch out for that.**

It had been a wonderful few days. In an awful, unbearable sort of way. Cairo was just as she'd remembered it. Well, obviously, some things had changed, but the city retained that same timeless feel she'd noticed years ago, as if it was constantly slipping in and out of modernity. She'd been to the museum, to the surprise and joy of Dr. Hawass, who had given her a personal tour of the best collections. She had marveled over the mummies in their climate-controlled glass coffins. It was ironic really, that the wealthy had desired immortality above all else, had invented embalming to attain it, had performed incredibly detailed procedures to preserve their bodies longer than nature ever intended. And watching a stream of giggling middle-schoolers single-filing through the dim room, it was amazing how well they'd managed to find that immortality after all. Just possibly in a less spectacular way than they'd conceived.

She filled her days with sights and sounds and tastes and smells, attempting to banish all thoughts of her partner by inviting Cairo to assault her senses. But everywhere she went, she heard his voice in her mind. Wondered what he would think or say about the places she went. She thought of him, shamefully, when she saw young couples walking the promenade along the Nile. Sometimes she wished she was just a normal person, that their relationship could be that simple. But she wasn't a normal person. She didn't believe in the things he believed in, could never be the type of woman he wanted. His previous girlfriends didn't even look like her. And as for his current girlfriend… well, she'd been too distracted to even look at the woman in Booth's bed before turning to flee. _The woman in Booth's bed._ The thought stung.

She recognized that somewhere along the way, so gradually that she hadn't seen it coming until it was too late, she'd started feeling inappropriately close to her partner. She'd started wishing for more, having irrational and unproductive hopes. She'd stopped dating, and Booth had become the single most important person in her life. Looking objectively at her situation, it made a lot of sense. Rationally speaking. Booth was a good man, an impressive man. She spent more time in his company than in anyone else's. It was only natural really that she would develop sexual feelings for him. That part made sense. It was the other stuff, the…heart stuff… that worried her far more. She had never _cared_ for someone this much before. She worried about his pains and injuries, silently watching him for signs of unspoken weakness. She felt resentful and defensive on his behalf, almost feral, when Becca didn't allow him enough time with Parker. She was often, at least once every day, so _proud_ of him that she wondered if her face was glowing. She simply had come to believe that Seeley Booth was the best person she'd ever known. But that best person wasn't interested in her romantically. _Obviously_ he was with someone else. Someone he hadn't felt comfortable enough to tell his own partner about.

If she couldn't soon get a handle on her emotions, she would ruin their partnership. So she made a well-reasoned, logical plan. Sort of a stop-thinking-about-Booth-in-_that-_way plan. Objectively speaking, the best way to proceed was to treat her burgeoning interest in Booth as a type of addiction. She had never been addicted to anything before, but Booth had. And from what he'd told her about successfully kicking his gambling habit, she understood the basic tenets of the Gamblers Anonymous program, and she planned to complete it before returning to the Jeffersonian, to her partner. Especially the step about getting honest. And she had to start by getting honest with herself.

So she gave herself permission—temporarily, of course—to think whatever she wanted about her partner. To get to the truth of it, to get honest. To acknowledge the emotions that she'd been ignoring, to recognize the thoughts she'd fleetingly entertained. There was one thought in particular that still made her blush with shame. She had this _thing_ that she'd started thinking about. Fantasizing about. It was very much out of her common taste, and at first that had bothered her, worried her. The independent, feminist part of her cringed at the recent redirection in her fantasy life. She had rationalized around and over the topic like some sort of psychological bendy straw for months, but finally had come to no conclusion beyond this: for whatever reason, she had… a _thing_ for the idea of going down on her partner. Okay. So there it is. Though she'd certainly… is _fellated_ a word?... other men in the past, she'd never truly enjoyed it. Sure, there was a pleasant sense of control to the act, like being at the wheel, (and maybe that was it—a metaphorical retribution for Booth never letting her drive?) but there was also a sore neck, a painful jaw, occasionally unpleasant tastes, and that whole issue of what to do about the grand finale. But for some reason, the idea of pulling him into her mouth and happily sucking on him like some delicious lollipop had recently climbed its way to the top of her playlist of favorite Booth fantasies—of which, to her chagrin, there were many.

She liked to imagine starting when he was soft, because her ego relished the compliment of causing him to swell as she went. She imagined starting gently, torturously slowly, taking just the tip of his head between her lips and softly applying just a little bit of suction, just tasting. He would groan and his head would fall back, eyes closed. She had a very good understanding of the physiological factors at play in his erection—where the nerve endings were, how the constricted blood forced his hardness to swell, how sensitive the skin was around the ridge of his head—but her best trick by far was simple enthusiasm. How appreciative she was, how excited to finally taste him, how aroused it made her to bring him to such a mindless state. She would slide down so that his head was entirely in her mouth, and curl her tongue daintily around his swollen tip. She would wrap one hand around the base of his penis to keep him still, and to slowly pump up and down. She would tighten her grip as much as she physically could, and it still wouldn't ever be quite enough. He would wrap his own hand around hers and add his strength, showing her how to clench him tighter. Her own head would nod back and forth as she repeatedly dipped lower to take more of him into her mouth. She would stretch her neck and slide as far down as she was physically able, moaning as she went, just to show off. That she could control her gag reflex was the least of her tricks, he would learn. She prided herself in knowing, and controlling, her own physical reactions to stimulus.

But even she wouldn't be able to completely control her own arousal, at the feel of him filling her throat. He would look down, at the sight of his length slowly disappearing and reappearing from his partner's rosy lips and would almost lose it. She would murmur nonsensical reassurances against his girth, soothing him with her tongue. And then she would hold him again in her fist and lap her tongue slowly from the base to the tip and back, like working on an ice cream cone. She would explore every inch of him, as his breathing turned rapid and shaky, and press worshipful kisses on his silky skin. She would tell him how long she'd dreamed of wrapping her mouth around him, how she'd salivated at the thought, how she'd wondered what he'd look like and taste like and feel like but _none_ of her imaginings had come close to how erotic the real thing was, how wet it made her, how dizzy. She would warn him that she may become addicted, may constantly beg for his cock to be always in her mouth, and he would groan and gasp at her dirty language. And then she sip on him again, tender with her tongue. He would cup the back of her head in his large hand, twining his fingers into her hair, and hold her skull firmly. But he wouldn't control her or push her mouth down—he was too much of a gentleman. He would simply suffer, his fingers curling against the urge to do just that, to thrust into her hot mouth without control.

And she would use her other hand to gently lift his scrotum, to test its heavy weight, to feel how high and tight and clenched his balls were as he got close. She would nibble the flexible skin there, playfully nipping gently, until he whimpered or said _please_ and she would return her mouth to his penis and greedily pop him into her mouth, relishing how rigid he had become. She would sneak a glance at his face, and bask in the ecstasy in his expression, the anguish, how he fought to control himself. He would catch her looking at him and their eyes would meet, staring hungrily without comment, as if neither could believe what was happening. And then she would just _enjoy._ Would move her fist faster, slide her lips faster, flick her tongue faster. He wouldn't be able to stop a slight thrust from moving his hips and she would meet him with her mouth, moving down on his upstroke. He would be gasping for air, for control. She would groan in desperate arousal as if his nerves were her own. He would choke out a warning, her name… _Bones…_ like the gentleman he was, but she would stubbornly wrap her lips around him tighter, murmuring her permission. She had waited so long to explore his body, every last line and sensation of it, and she was going to taste him too. And his hips would push towards her one last time and both of his hands would grip the sides of her skull and he would grunt, his eyes wrenched shut and his face contorted like he was in pain, and there would be a rush of warmth down the back of her throat, salty like ocean water but sweeter, and the thought of her swallowing him like that would make him weak.

She thought about a lot of things really. She had a very vivid imagination, after all. But she had gotten way, way off track. This exercise was supposed to be about getting honest, in order to get back to a professional, working partnership. And this kind of indulgent, fantasy interlude was of no assistance. Refocusing, she took a few calming breaths and willed her body to calm down. Endorphins didn't promote clear thinking. Groaning quietly, she had to admit that maybe it was _her partner_ that didn't promote clear thinking. Either way. She was determined to recover from this unfortunate addiction—and once Dr. Temperance Brennan put her mind to something, she seldom failed.


	5. Chapter 5

If Booth could have made the airplane go any faster, he would have. He was frustrated and impatient—if Parker ever acted as irritable as he was right now, he would've called it _cranky_—and he had to fight the urge to throw elbows at the passengers on either side of him. A middle seat. Did the woman at the ticket desk not have eyes? Did she not realize how impossible it was for a man his size to squeeze into a middle seat on a plane like this? He already had a crick in his neck from smooshing his shoulders in, attempting to compress himself into the narrow confines of his airline-allotted space. He really wished the FBI afforded him the lifestyle to be able to fly first class, like Bones did. It was going to be a long flight, in so many ways.

He told himself that every mile the plane covered was a mile closer to Bones. Progress. But he still had no clue what he would say if he managed to find her. How do you apologize for a fuckup that had so many layers it was like a Russian nesting doll of mistakes? First, for allowing himself to fall in love with his partner, when _he_ was the one who drew that line between them in the first place. But on this point, he told himself, there was little he could do. He hadn't chosen to fall in love with Bones—it had just happened. Each time she'd trusted him, amazed him, made him laugh, criticized him, defended him…each time, he'd given her a tiny measure of his heart in gratitude. And over the years those profound moments had multiplied, day after day, until he was shocked to find that he had nothing left of his heart to give. She already held the whole thing in her hands.

But mistake number two… now that was definitely his fault. Kissing her. It was only a few days ago but it felt like ages. He had selfishly thrown their partnership, their lives, into a tailspin because he just couldn't keep from touching her flawless skin. From tasting, just once. He'd lost control for only a second, but it was a second he couldn't take back, no matter how many times he wished he could. And no one else was to blame. He was no green kid, no teenager. He should have had the strength to keep it together. But he could still feel how tender she'd been under his lips, could still smell the bouquet of her soap, her shampoo, heated warm by her body. He'd wanted women before, but never like this. _Never_ like this. He was more aroused by the crumbs from Bones' table than he'd ever been by the feasts other women had served him. The smallest things she did sent his nerve endings snapping. When her voice got just a little bit whiny ("That's not faaair, Booth!"), when she unbuttoned her blue lab coat before leaving the Jeffersonian (please God, maybe this time there won't be anything underneath it…), when she offered him a bite of cornflakes (that spoon was just in her mouth—it would be like kissing her, sort of almost). It made his thoughts scatter like leaves blown on the wind—he couldn't focus, couldn't behave like a partner should. This unrequited suffering made him stupid, made him desperate. Made him do seriously witless things like…

Mistake number three: thinking that an anonymous fuck could somehow fix anything. As if _anyone,_ much less an insignificant stranger, could make him forget how much he wanted Bones. It had only made it worse, exponentially worse. Made him realize that he could never go back to, as she would say, merely satisfying biological urges. _He_ had been the one to lecture her on the sanctity of making love. Well, _he_ was a disgusting hypocrite. And he wouldn't blame her if she never spoke to him again. The way he'd acted all holier-than-thou about making love, the way he'd led her to believe that he understood more than she did. Looking back on their years together, he'd understood nothing. Only now, in the calm after he detonated their partnership, did he understand how much he needed her.

And then mistake number four: getting on this plane. Going after her like a lovesick idiot, when she'd invested God know's how much in plane tickets to evade him. He knew he was only making it worse, and yet he couldn't stop himself. He had to find her, had to see with his own eyes that she was okay. He had to apologize, so that—even if she couldn't forgive him, and even if she didn't want to be his partner anymore—she would understand that none of it was her fault. That he hadn't kissed her as if she was some sort of opening act and then gone off to find the main show, that he would never ever abandon her unless she told him to. Though, he thought wryly, given that he was jammed into this plane seat following her halfway around the globe suggested that maybe even _then_ he wouldn't abandon her.

The air in the 747's cabin was so stuffy. It was making him drowsy. He reached up to aim the little air blower onto his face and found that his was broken. Perfect. He would suffocate long before he reached Cairo. Maybe they'd ask Bones to determine the cause of his death. He pictured himself on the slab at the Jeffersonian, a bleached collection of long bones, the pieces of his vertebrae exhibited in a tidy, dotted line. Pictured Bones, leaning over him, her face arranged in scientific inquiry, coolly examining the skeletal souvenirs of a man's life. She picked up his skull and swiveled it slowly, her blue gaze piercing in its intensity. Her hands were so gentle, her fingers light and deft as they traced the ridge of his brow, the empty sockets that once held the eyes that had looked back at her in adoration. She returned his skull to the table carefully and lifted the tip of his index finger to the light. What did she see there? Could she see microscopic evidence of each time he'd pulled a trigger? Could she analyze his sins from that one little bone? Of course she could—she was Temperance Brennan, a genius. The most brilliant person he'd ever known. She was always analyzing him, but somehow never judging. It should have been a horrible thought, to have the woman he loved examining his remains—and yet, somehow, it felt oddly comforting. Safe. As if her steady competency could somehow animate his skeleton with life again. There was no one else he'd rather have studying his bones, cataloguing his insides with such tender clarity. It felt like a caress, each time her gloved fingers brushed the surface of his bones. And he could still feel it somehow, when she lifted a piece of him to the light to examine, a feeling of weightlessness, of gratitude, of being in the very best hands. He hoped her exam would never be over, that she would never stop touching him…

He awoke with a startled gasp. The plane—he was still on the plane. Having a seriously messed up dream. And getting a new, equally painful, crick in his neck. How long had he been asleep? He rubbed his fists over his eyes and glanced around him. Same scene as before. Same faces hunched over books or slackened in slumber. He checked his watch and was relieved to find that a decent amount of time had passed. But not enough time. He could never get to her soon enough.

**AN: It's been a long day and I'm feeling needy. And yes, I've been on a lot of airplanes lately. LOL… If you have time, please do drop me a line to let me know what you thought. : )**


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: Alright folks, I'm going to wrap this up. (Sorry I'm a day late on when I planned to post—my hotel room sucks and is killing my urge to write.) I can only torture them so long before I get sad. I'm starting to feel like a really mean person… : ) Thank you so much for the amazing reviews, which I don't deserve, but joyously accept anydamnway. You guys are the best. The encouragement totally keeps me writing. Also, I've been alternating POVs with each chapter, but since this is the last chap I've sort of mooshed them artlessly together. Hope it's not too confusing. And warning: this chapter is loooooooooong. So put on a pot of coffee. Thanks for reading!**

The metallic-mosquito buzzing of her cell phone jolted Brennan awake. She'd had the ringer off for the last few days, but forgot how loud a phone could vibrate against a nightstand when the rest of the room was silent. _Damn._ It was Angela. Again. Propping herself up, she scanned the latest text from her friend:

_Sweetie,_

_Before you read the rest of this, I want you to take a deep breath and remind yourself that I'm your friend and I love you. I lurrrrrrrve you, even. So I hope you won't be too mad when I tell you that Booth is on his way to Cairo. Right now. I know you must really be wanting your space right now, but I didn't know what to do. I've never seen him like this—seriously, Bren, you wouldn't believe how upset he is. And he figured it out on his own anyway, mostly. I just…helped. He promised me that all he wants is to talk to you, and sweetie I really hope you hear him out. What you guys have is too good to let go of. I have no idea what happened (because *someone* hasn't been answering her phone for days) but please take care of yourself. So yeah, mea culpa, I helped Booth find you, because I'm worried. You can hate me when you get back safe, okay? _

_Hugs,_

_-A_

Brennan almost dropped the phone in shock. He was on his way here? Now? She jumped out of bed, dragging her hair into shape. Her eyes fell on her suitcase, frantically. She could pack and be gone in less than ten minutes, she reasoned. She wasn't ready to see him! She started throwing clothing onto the bed haphazardly. There wasn't time to do this correctly, but she could repack at the airport. She just needed to get everything into her bag and get out of this hotel. She'd put the hotel reservation in her real name, not expecting that Booth would be able to determine which city she'd actually travelled to. But she hadn't expected Angela to help him, and now she knew it was entirely possible that he'd be able to find her. Unlikely, but possible. And now was not the time to underestimate his skills as an agent. She was just sweeping the contents of the bathroom counter into her bag when a knock at the door stopped her heart. It couldn't be…

"Bones, are you in there? Bones?"

_Shit!_ Maybe if she just stayed silent, he would go away. Barely breathing, she set her bag down on the counter and slowly inched back into her room, somehow drawn to his presence even though she wanted to stay hidden. To know that he flew halfway across the world, and was standing just on the other side of that door… she wondered how he looked, whether he was still angry at her, what he would say. But she kept quiet, hardly daring to move. There was no sound from the other side of the door. …He must have left. Part of her was relieved, but part of her was surprised at how fast he'd given up, after coming so far. And… another feeling she couldn't name. Something approaching emptiness.

A faint scratching announced that he was picking the lock and she gasped, looking around for an exit she knew didn't exist. There was nowhere to go. She backed up against the bed and watched with her pulse thundering in her ears as the door slowly opened. He just stood there, looking back at her. He was wearing a t-shirt and jeans; without his agent's black suit he looked younger, and somehow larger than she remembered, filling the entrance to her little room. She couldn't read the expression on his face—but it definitely wasn't friendly. To come all this way and break into her room just to yell at her? He must be even angrier than she thought. _Think fast, think fast._ She had promised herself that when she got back she would be a better friend to him, make him understand that he didn't need to hide his personal life, and that she'd never barge in again. Maybe she should start her apology now, before he gave whatever parting speech he'd come to deliver and walked out of her life.

Clearing her throat awkwardly, she crossed the room to him and held her hand out to shake. "Booth, I'm so sorry, and if you give me a chance I'll apologize properly."

He looked at the small hand held towards him as if it was an alien object. Just stared, eyes wide. Finally, he reached out and took her hand reluctantly, though he didn't shake it. He merely used it to pull her closer to him. "You're…_sorry_?" he asked quietly.

Looking into his eyes she found herself robbed of the ability to speak. Had she always missed him this much? It had only been a few days since she'd seen him—seen more of him than she'd wanted to—but it felt like so much longer. She wanted to apologize the way she'd planned, she wanted to explain and somehow convince him not to ask the Bureau for a new partner, but she wasn't thinking clearly. Something about the nearness of him, arriving like this _when_ she hadn't expected, _where_ she hadn't expected. Out of his element, out of his country, and somehow even more attractive because of it. It was unfair, really. She couldn't speak with his eyes melting holes in her, so she closed her own and began.

"I'm sorry I barged in on you and your… I'm sorry that you feel you have to hide parts of your life from me. I didn't even know you were dating anyone, or I would never have… I'm sorry I haven't been a very good friend, when you've always been the best friend I could ever ask…" she was rambling now. Taking another breath, she continued, eyes still shut tight so she wouldn't see his disappointment. "You're always so patient with me, and I'm sorry if I took that for granted. You deserve to be happy with…whoever makes you happy. You're a good man. You're the best man I've ever known," she added quietly. "I don't want to lose you, Booth." Why wasn't he saying anything? Her voice broke as she continued. "Please, if you'll just tell me what I can do to make it up to you… you know I'm not good with social… I never know…"

"Open your eyes, _please_, Bones," he rasped, "I can't take any more of this. Just stop. You have the wrong idea."

She opened her eyes as instructed, to find him pale and desperate looking, his stare boring into her. "You did nothing wrong. Listen to me—nothing. I came here to apologize to _you_." He closed the door swiftly behind him and moved them to the bed, brushing aside her clothing before sitting down. "Bones, I'm not dating anyone, I'm not. What you walked in on… I don't even know her name. It was just… I don't even know how to explain it."

She blanched, unable to meet his eyes. The thought of Booth sharing something so personal with a stranger, of letting an anonymous woman into the bed that she'd dreamed about, that someone so totally undeserving of his affection had seen and felt and tasted and _experienced _parts of him she'd fantasized about for so long… It was only the possessive side of her that saved her from total heartbreak; its anger boiled and frothed over her misery, as protective as it was toxic. She looked at him as if she'd never known him.

"Is this _normal_ for you, Booth? Is this just something you do on a random Saturday night? Because _I_ seem to recall lectures on…on making love and breaking the laws of physics, and becoming one with someone _special_, or was that all just to belittle me?" she hissed.

"No!" he pleaded, dropping to his knees to kneel in front of her on the floor. "It was _not_ normal. It was… awful, and wrong, and I still feel sick thinking about it. It was for all the wrong reasons and I'm sorry. Bones, I'm so _sorry._"

He looked like he was on the verge of tears, but somehow that only made her feel more nauseous, made the whole sordid situation sicker. Booth kneeling in front of her, eyes swimming, face desperate. In the position of a man proposing marriage but instead merely apologizing for… for what exactly? Why was he apologizing, and why was she so upset that she needed him to? Surely partners, even close friends, shouldn't apologize to each other for their sexual activities. They weren't a couple; they had no claim to each other romantically. What the hell were they doing acting like… like they were something more than they were? It wasn't rational.

She shook her head, trying to expel the confusion from her mind. "Let's just forget it. You have nothing to apologize for. You have every right to conduct your personal life however you want, without me crashing in on you. I won't do that again. We can put this all behind us and just…be partners."

He froze. What she was offering, to go back to normal, to partners, should have felt like a relief. But it was ridiculous. He couldn't do this anymore, take part in this theater. Just forget it? He might as well forget to breathe. "Bones," he growled. "You flew to Egypt. You bought eight tickets so that I couldn't find you. What you walked in on, it upset you. If we were just partners, why would you be so upset?"

Enraged, she shouted at him. "You kissed me! You. Kissed. Me! If we were just partners, _Booth,_ why would you kiss me?"

He grabbed her face in his hands, ignoring her attempts to pry his hands away. "Because I've wanted to kiss you since the day I met you! I know I shouldn't have. I was weak, I'm sorry! I kissed you and then… you just walked away. I couldn't handle you rejecting me, turning your back on me, Bones! Thinking that I ruined what we have together! I went to the nearest bar and picked up the first woman I saw just to try to _get you out of my mind. _So that I wouldn't slip up again, so that maybe we could still be partners. And then when I went to look for you and you were gone… I felt like I'd lost you. I made mistake after mistake after mistake—four, by the way, I counted… I just fucked up. The most important person in my life, and I fucked it all up." A raw sob tore from her throat, seizing his heart with pain. He leaned in until their foreheads touched and their breath mingled. "You mean everything to me," he confessed. "I'm sorry for what I did, I'm sorry for everything. I can't stand that I hurt you."

She blinked through the fall of her tears and cried, "I didn't reject you! I just needed time. I… was confused. I didn't know what that kiss meant. I didn't think that you felt that way about me… I never thought that you could _want_ me like that…"

Pulling her face to his, he claimed her in a searing, passion-raw kiss, moaning deep in his throat at the unbearable agony of seeing her cry. "How could I not want you?" he groaned. He branded her with his lips, their mouths meeting in frantic copulation, trying to ease the pain. For her, it was the birth of a hope that she'd nurtured so long that she'd started to believe it could never live. For him, it was a chance to redeem himself.

They struggled to press their bodies closer and she sank to the floor on his lap, wedged against the side of the bed, digging her fingers into his thick hair and swooning into the kiss that was a thousand times more intense than she'd dared to dream. He was so familiar, but this intimacy was so new. Fireworks: pinwheels and sparklers and bottle rockets ricocheting around her belly, incinerating her sadness, lighting her up like the fourth of July. Incandescent. Hot.

She brought her fingers to his jaw, feeling the sandpaper rasp of his evening stubble, mesmerized by the hinged, heavy bone. She'd admired his facial structure for so long—the prominent ridge of his brow, the strong angles of his profile…and that jaw that had clenched in frustration so many times over their years together. She held his face in her hand and angled her mouth over his as if she could drink from him. The green scent of his shampoo smelled somehow like home, and it jostled her out of the fog, amazed that she could feel so _home_ in such a foreign place. She leaned back to marvel at him, make sure he didn't regret what they were doing. The expression she saw in his face was pure lust, and it nearly threw her backwards with the force of it. She'd imagined that face in her dreams, but hadn't gotten it quite right. It was serious, brooding in a way that looked almost angry, and his eyes crackled with intense light.

She had to take a moment, had to pause, before her mind turned completely to jelly. There was something he said earlier that had seemed odd… "You said you made four mistakes, Booth. That's an emphatically specific number. Do you want to tell me what they were?"

He shook his head mutely, his eyes hungrily tracing the lines of her legs as she straddled him. Rocking her hips into his, she settled further into his lap, bringing their faces even. He groaned at the painful relief of finally having her on top of him. Their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces, just like he'd always known they would. This felt so right that she was suddenly heartbroken she hadn't discovered it earlier. All those years…She nuzzled her face beneath his jaw, dragging her lips softly towards his ear. "You can tell me," she coaxed. "What was mistake number four?"

Seemingly unable to control the deep breaths that were shuddering from his chest, he clenched his jaw and relented. "Coming to Cairo," he groaned, "coming after you."

She pulled his earlobe into her mouth and sucked daintily, lazily. Her voice in his ear was a seductive shush. "Not a mistake," she told him, testing the delicate skin gently between her teeth.

He gripped her hips, flexing his fingers against the curve of her flesh. She felt delicate and firm under the pressure of his broad hands… ripe. It was ironic, he thought, that the first woman he could honestly claim to love _not_ just for her body had such a killer body. Feeling her hips undulate ever so slightly, he nearly came undone.

"What was mistake number three?" she asked sweetly, tracing his hairline with languorous kisses.

He swallowed audibly. "The… with the stranger," he choked, shame apparent in every line of his face.

Her murmured laughter was quiet. "Now that _was_ a mistake," she teased, smiling. "But I forgive you."

He tensed, feeling a tremulous ray of hope burning a fissure in his guilty heart. "Really, Bones?" he asked, almost afraid to believe her words. _He _hadn't forgiven himself—and wasn't likely to, ever. He tipped her head back to look into her eyes. "Seriously. How can you forgive me just like that?"

She took a moment to think about his question. "Honestly, it's not a matter of how. It's not like I have to _try_ to forgive you." She shrugged. "I just…do. There's nothing in my _heart,_" she inflected the word deliberately, "for you but good things. So many good things that there's no room for bad things. I know that sounds childish but I don't know how else to explain it. Does that make sense?"

He nodded. "I don't deserve it, but yes, it makes sense." He knew the emotion that sprung like a well under that magical ability to forgive, but if she wasn't ready to say it, he wasn't going to push her. It was enough—more than enough—that she hadn't closed her heart to him.

"Or maybe it's that whole saving-my-life thing you do so well," she continued. "Makes it pretty difficult to hold petty grievances."

He laughed at that one. "So a bullet wound equals a get-out-of-jail-free card?" he asked playfully. She shot him a warning glance and he sobered immediately. "I know it hurts you to talk about it, Bones, but I'd do it again in a heartbeat. A million times over. I'd die for you."

A wash of tears threatened the dams of her eyelids. She knew, but couldn't answer him, so she just rested her head on his shoulder and collapsed into his embrace. His arms caged her with reassuring strength. She was so small that Booth felt like he could wrap himself completely around her, holding her in the concave space of his curved shoulders, enfolding her and sheltering her. The silence cocooned them, comfortable as always, as they let their bodies soothe each other.

A small sniffle and a sigh against his ear told him that she'd gathered her thoughts. He could actually feel her smile return against his cheek. Her lips travelled gently across his brow, settling tenderly against his closed eyes. "Now, Agent Booth," she continued quietly. "What was mistake number two?"

"Kissing you," he admitted.

"Mmmm, _definitely_ not a mistake," she purred, lavishing his face with the slow brush of her lips. "Do you know how much I wanted you then? Wanted more than just that kiss? I wished you hadn't stopped. I'm afraid I'll never want you to stop."

Her words kindled the fire licking under his skin. He'd never expected her to welcome his obsession, never dared to hope that she suffered the same malady. He had expected to spend a lifetime worshipping her from afar, enduring the torment of other men walking into her life and receiving the gift he'd never been given. But now… he felt unleashed, utterly without restraint. He hoped she realized what she was getting into. Touching her like this, being inside those stubborn walls she'd constructed…no force on heaven or earth would be able to rip him from her ever again. He wanted something beyond commitment, beyond permanence. He wanted to become a part of her very being. And he wanted to start now.

He skimmed her shirt over her head decisively as she arched against the bed behind her. His hands immediately cupped her breasts, delicately, reverently, rasping sweet friction across her fevered skin. A gravelly moan of pleasure slipped from her throat at the divine torture of his hands, _his_ hands on her breasts, lifting them, and the sheer focus in his eyes as he absorbed the sight of her. She tasted so sweet when he bent his mouth to sample, discarding her bra without ceremony. The relief of finally being able to put his hands on her, to bury his mouth in her cleavage, felt like oxygen. He'd dreamed of these for so long—somehow they looked even more perfect, more delicious, than he'd thought possible. He could spend the rest of his life right here and die a happy man.

He shifted under her, greedily trying to grind himself harder into the notch of her legs. The motion elicited a telling gasp from her. With a triumphant glare, he forced her hips down against him more tightly and thrust upwards again, seeking the very same spot. She was going to pass out if he did that again—and she still had her pants on. Something about that arrogant look on his face sent her nerves skittering. For the first time, she wondered if she'd be able to handle what he could give. She slowed his pace with a hand against the firm wall of his chest. "Now tell me mistake number one," she prompted.

He knew this was coming—there was no evading Bones when she sought answers. He couldn't deny her the truth. He couldn't deny her much of anything… So Booth gathered his courage and whispered his confession: "Falling in love with my partner."

Her eyes locked on his, searching, penetrating. Sometimes returning her gaze felt like trying to stare at the sun, she could be so intense. She tipped her head curiously, studying him. "Love?" she asked, her voice timid.

He cradled her face between his warm hands, caressing the velvet of her cheeks with the pad of his thumb. Her beautiful, precious, flawless face. He shook his head in tender amazement that she could ever doubt this. "Love," he replied with absolute conviction. He had never meant a word more.

She didn't feel the panic she'd expected. Didn't feel trapped, or smothered. It only felt like the return of spring after the long, bleak winter. She realized suddenly how long it had been since anyone said those words to her. Not like Angela, not like her father, not like Russ… it was _so_ good to hear. And from the one person she admired most. It was too lucky to be true. She couldn't stop the radiant smile that lit her face, and Booth actually laughed in relief at the sight of it. He'd been waiting like a man on a highwire, watching the ethereal play of emotions moving across her face before her features settled into that luminous smile that made him instantly drunk with joy.

She pressed her lips to his heart and whispered her confession in return. "Love."

They stripped each other of their clothing, their doubts, their fears, and stood before each other wearing only their skin. There was no space for awkwardness in their rush to press together, to feel every possible inch of each other that they could. They fell onto the bed together and he rolled on top of her, kissing her as if the life of the entire human race depended on it. Her limbs wrapped around him, somehow soothing and enflaming simultaneously. They memorized everything: each response, each motion, each moment.

And then he finally felt it, what he'd been wanting for years. His body, inside hers. The space where they joined closer than skin. The feeling that he was finally within the woman who illuminated his life. He held his body still and tense and tried to freeze the moment in time, so that he could live here for the rest of his days. Their skin melded together, temporarily indistinguishable from the other. He sought her eyes and their gaze held. They _held_.

And then he began to move, so slowly, nearly exiting her body on each torturous stroke before returning deeply. Their eyes never left each other's as their bodies writhed together in slow motion, undulating with exquisite luxury. She lifted her knees and hips with his rhythm, welcoming him into her center. She felt like she was sinking into his eyes; she couldn't look away. She saw so much emotion behind them, all their history culminating in this moment of beautiful torment. Even when he lowered his mouth to capture hers, they kept their eyes open. It was as if neither believed this was finally actually happening—that the vision could disappear behind foolishly closed eyelids.

Even as their pace crescendoed, his hips dipping down to hers increasingly fast, their gaze held. Even as he lost the ability to control his rhythm, jackhammering into her with a desperate force she hungrily accepted and met, stroke for stroke. Even as they both panted and cried out with the release of years of frustration, the rabid pleasure of their joining condensed into a few mere seconds that somehow stretched into infinite solace.

His body pulsed as he poured every atom of his passion into her, tried to show her what he didn't have words for, what he couldn't explain. How did you tell someone that even the word _love_ now seemed paltry, lightweight, too small to contain the enormity of your feelings? All the boxes in the deep corners of his mind unpacked themselves, as if by a kid on Christmas morning. Joyous, freeing rapture. He would never have to pack them away again, never have to pretend. He could worship her openly now, keep her and be kept.

She curled into the haven of his body, replete and exhausted, and reflected on the dramatic turns her life had taken over the past few days. To go from a place so low to this complete envelopment of joy seemed too fantastic to believe. She nestled closer against her partner, her… well, she didn't have a new word for what he was. _Everything_ came closest. She'd almost forgotten that they were in Egypt, almost forgotten that she had been trying to hide. She wished she'd never run from him, but oh, how good it was to get caught.

"Bones?"

"Yes?"

"Turn your brain down, it's keeping me up."

Laughing, she rolled over to place a kiss on his smiling lips. "I love you," she replied, trying the new phrase on for size. It fit.


End file.
